The Great Famine
by xxXSporkSistaXxx
Summary: The Great Irish Famine of 1847. Ireland has to work for America. Historically accurate, written with love.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ohh, I absolutely love Ireland. 'Kay- this is during the Great Famine in Ireland (1840's and 1860's) and yeah, England kinda kicked Irish people to America. Hope you enjoy, I'll add more chapters, and probably finish about the time when the famine ends. Review please, I'm really enjoying writing this story, cause I'm using a "Dear America" book, and it's got all the historical facts about this time period. Very interesting- very accurate!! :D**

"Ireland, open this bloody door before I kick it over."

"No."

The usually loud voice coming from the room was weak, almost a whisper, but still had the usual tint of stubbornness.

"OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR YOU BLOODY EXCUSE FOR A COUNTRY!"

England screamed back at the door, probably a little colder than he should have. The old nation knew that Ireland was sick, suffering from one of the worst famine's he had ever seen, but still, England couldn't take care of her, his own economy was in trouble, and he had no time to help her's.

"Fine."

The door creaked open, and in the doorway stood a fiery red-headed girl, hands on her hips, her emerald eyes blazing.

England was going to say something nasty, but really couldn't after seeing her.

Ireland's clothes were dirty, with rips and tears all along her skirt. Her normally red, freckled face was pale, deathly pale, which made her freckles stand out even more.

"By god, she's so thin…"

Thought England as yanked the protesting girl's arm, pulling her with him down the hall into the kitchen, and setting her down (a little roughly) on one of the wooden chairs.

"WOULD YA' LET GO OF ME YU FILTHY BRIT!"

England rolled his eyes back in his head as he pulled up a chair in front of hers, still blocking her from escaping through the door, but also watching to make sure she didn't hurt herself.

"Shut the bloody hell up!"

Ireland glared, arms crossed, but she really had no energy left to fight the taller blonde.

"May the devil damn you to the stone of dirges or to the well of ashes seven miles below hell and may the devil break your bones. And all my calamity and harm and misfortune for a year on you…"

She muttered, hoping to at least intimidate the man through words instead of actions.

"Bloody girl, you never listen. I have something important to tell you, will you listen for once?"

England actually looked serious, his eyebrows furrowing a little. Ireland noticed, and finally stopped muttering.

"Alright, well, considering how you are going through this famine…"

Ireland winced, looking away. She still hated the fact that England knew that her people were suffering, while his were just fine and dandy.

"And how I can't take care of you anymore."

Ireland snorted a little-

"You could barely call it care…"

England glared back at her, but she stuck her tongue out at him. The young man sighed, swept his hand through his dirty blonde hair, and looked back at his fellow nation.

"The bloody point though, is that you're going to have to leave me, I can't help you anymore. I've talked it over with America, that bloody wanker, and we've decided that he's stable enough to let you stay in his house for a few years…"

Ireland's face changed from a scowl to bright gleaming smile.

England almost fell back off his chair- the change in emotion was that fast.

"Really? America?"

She asked, eyes filled with relief. England had told her all of the stories about America, attempting to make him sound like a brat, or stupid. Of course, this backfired, and Ireland grew to love America's free spirit, and secretly envied him for gaining independence, and showing England up. Ireland, in a way, looked up to America.

"Well then, don't look too upset. You need to go pack your bloody bags then, and get ready to go. That oaf is coming to get you later this afternoon."

Ireland jumped up and ran to her room, laughing with joy, leaving a rather disgruntled and confused England behind.

She was going to America!


	2. Chapter 2

"Igggy, I'm hommmeee!"

America's loud voice rang throughout the entire house. Ireland nearly fell out her chair; she had been anticipating this for the whole 5 hours since England had told her that she was going to stay with America with a few years, until her country's famine wore off.

"Ughh…"

She moaned a little, clutching her stomach, wincing. Probably not the best idea to jump right now.

Her stomach had started hurting soon after she learned the horrible news that a darned blight had destroyed all of her nation's potatoe crop. At first, it was really painful. She would even cough up blood, even if it was just a little. Her people were dying fast, which scared her. Her irish natives were strong, they would never give up. They would fight until their very last breath.

Too bad they literally were.

When she had finally moved back in with England, the pain in her body was just a dull throb that she learned to ignore. This was not going to defeat her; especailly not with that cocky English man watching.

As Ireland snatched up her little suitcase, which was filled with a few simple dresses, songbook, and hair brush, she felt her stomach do a flip-flop.

She was going to America. But then, she stopped.

What if he didn't like her. What if he thought her hair was too red, her feckles too gross, or her speech stupid?

She winced as the embaressment flooded through her. What if he was cruel, like England was sometimes? What if he made her a slave, a mindless, robotic slave?

No.

America was better than that, she told herself, he wouldn't be like the others.

She grinned- maybe he would even be cute…

"IRELAND, GET YOUR BLOODY ASS DOWN HERE, AMERICA'S HERE!"

She could hear England screeching from the bottom of the stairs, and then she heard America's voice ringing.

It was a real nice sound, so happy and carefree. That's the word- free. She sighed happily, feeling that, in a way, she was freeing herself from England. She was freeing herself from her people's suffering. With America, everything would be better.

Ireland skipped down the stairs, swinging her case back and forth, and met the person who would take her in.

America had on his big, sweet smile, and his blue eyes shined a bit sadly up at Ireland.

England on the other hand, was scowling, complaining about how long the girl was taking, and how he wanted America out of his house, because he was dragging his dirty feet all over the floor.

America then clapped England hard on the back, making the older one stumble forward.

"Ah, she's not a total monster Iggy!"

Ireland stopped, frowned, and dropped her suitcase. England's eye's widened a bit in horror.

"You called me a what?"

Her voice was thin and cold, like ice, but her face was turning that burning beet red, freckles popping.

"Americaaa!"

He hissed, slowly backing up, and finally hiding behind the taller nation's shoulders.

Ireland let out a shriek, and with teeth bared, threw herself forward at England.

"HOW DARE YOU!"

America frowned a little, but still managed to block the raging girl from maiming his brother.

"Ireland…"

Ireland scratched furiously at him, murder in her expression.

"May you be afflicted with the itch and have no nails to scratch with!"

Her clawing slowed down though, and she felt the weariness flood through her limbs.

America noticed, and slowly put his hands on her shoulders, slowing her even more.

England stepped out from behind his former colony, eyebrows furrowed, his own face now turning a nasty shade of scarlet.

Ireland blushed ridicuosly bright red, not only had she looked like a complete idiot in front of America, but she now looked weak in front of England.

Don't you dare cry.

She repeated over and over in her head, looking down at the floor.

America cleared his throat awkwardly, cutting off whatever snide remark England was about to say.

"Ireland, let's..um, get going then…"

She nodded slightly, and followed the tall nation out the door.

England shut the door behind them very loudly, causing her to look up.

She was free!

A rush of excitement washed over her as she sat in the seat next to America. The wagon bounced a lot, making her grip the side, and she watched the horses' heads bob up and down.

A few hours later, they were pulled up to a large white house. Not exactly a mansion like Englands, but very big and impressive.

Ireland took a deep breath, hopped out of the side, dragging her little suitcase behind her. This was a new start, a clean, fresh start. She almost couldn't feel the throbbing in her hungry stomach, and she felt like she could sing.

America showed Ireland to her new room, which was nice. It was plain, with white walls and only a small bed and desk, but hey, it was better than nothing.

She unceremoniously dropped her suitcase on the white linen blankets of the bed, and walked over to the little mirror on the desk.

She looked at her reflection, which smiled back at her. She felt a little better already, and her eyes were clearer.

She crossed back to her bed, and plopped down. That hurt a little though, and she took a few deep breaths, holding her stomach lightly. Note to self: no jumping or plopping from now on.

"IRELAND!"

She heard America calling from downstairs.

The red-head girl bounced up- ugh, no bouncing either, hurts too much- and quickly rushed down the staircase, pulling her hair back and tying it up.

Worktime.


	3. Chapter 3

Ireland found America in the laundry room, a pile of clothes in his arms. She grimaced a little, knowing that with her quick temper and clumsy fingers, if he wanted her to sew; he was going to be disappointed.

"Umm, yes sir?"

She hated how meek and lowly she sounded. America didn't seem to notice, and smiled down warmly at her.

"Call me America. Sir sounds too…Englandish..."

He stuck out his tongue in disgust, which caused Ireland to giggle.

"Yes America, then."

He grinned, liking the way she said his name with that funny accent.

"Ireland, I need you to patch up these shirts, and then I need you to begin sewing some more for me. My closet's been a bit out-of-date for a while, and I think it would be the perfect job for you. See- I even got you a sewing machine!"

He pointed proudly at the large, complicated looking device in one corner of the large room.

Ireland gulped, having never seen anything like it before, but nodded, not wanting to look stupid.

"Yes America."

She carefully took the large pile of clothes from his arms, and set them down tenderly next to the machine. America waved goodbye, and walked briskly out of the room, his one stray hair bouncing comically above his head.

Ireland sighed a little. This wasn't exactly what she had in mind. She could do hard labor, yeah, sometimes; she even enjoyed the farm work, all the outside chores. This though, she felt, was a little degrading.

Mindless hours spent bending over a sewing machine wasn't too appealing to the rambunctious Irish lady.

"The treatment of the boiled broken little fish to you…" she muttered though. Ireland felt guilty- she was being selfish for asking so much, when she really could only give a little. America was this great, powerful nation, and he had helped her in her darkest hour. You can't get much luckier than that.

She sighed, suppressing all of her raging emotions. America needed mended clothes, and she was the lass to do it.

But how to work the machine…


	4. Chapter 4

Ireland bit back a painful cry as she clutched her now bleeding finger. Not again…

It was the third time that week, she got her blasted fingers caught in the dewing machine.

She rocked back and forth, sucking the finger and cursing herself for being so clumsy.

This machine was really a pain though. It was loud, smelly, and not very safe- which Ireland had learned the hard way.

She blinked back tears, and looked down at the now ruined piece of cloth. America would be disappointed. America really didn't seem to realize just how her machine was to work. He would wake her up every morning really early, even before the cock crowed, and have her off to work. Ireland wouldn't complain though, because when she did, America would do a guilt-trip move on her. His bright, cheery smile would drop, and his eyes had the look of a wounded puppy.

"C'mon Ireland, I'm helping you- can't you help me with this teensy job?"

She couldn't help but apologize, and work even harder for the rest of the day. It was those darned blue eyes.

Maybe that was why that puppy-dog eye trick didn't work on England- he must've become immune while America was still his colony. Darn America…

Ireland's feelings had definitely changed towards the powerful nation.

She learned that he was very selfish. Even though he had promised to take care of her- she could still feel her people suffering.

She only ate two meager meals a day, barely enough to keep her from keeling over, and whenever she would nod off at the machine, he would bang obnoxiously on the door, waking her up, and often causing her to mess up the fabric.

Her workload doubled too, when her fingers became more nimble with the delicate needles and threads. America began demanding more and more shirts.

How many shirts did a nation need?

Many times, when America would turn to leave, Ireland would feel hatred bubble up inside.

The times when she really wanted to hurt him, was when he would make jokes, or say something racist against the Irish. Perhaps it was just a joke, or maybe he didn't know she was sitting 5 feet away from him, but she definitely heard. And it hurt.

As her people were hurting and hating, Ireland was hurting and hating with the same passion.

The potatoes weren't getting any better though, and the days wore on without end. Endless weeks turned into months, which finally turned into years.

How much time went by, Ireland couldn't tell you, but it was 1861, when she heard the news.


	5. Chapter 5

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yeah! The song she is singing is a real song that the Irish women would sing as they worked. I thought it would be appropriate for the situation! Okay- so, I hope this story is good- I definitely tried to keep it as historically accurate as possible, but making America the bad guy was really hard! Please review!**

Ireland was leaning over the machine, breathing hard as she concentrated on getting the stitches just right. Her fingers felt raw, and they probably were. Her hearing had gone bad, because the constant droning of the machine ripped through her whole body, making it impossible to hear anything. Her features were gaunt, and her eyes had lost the flame that used to be ever-present.

America stood silent by the door, watching her work. He felt a little bad, treating her like this, but he couldn't help it. His country needed this man-power, and this was the only way they were going to get it. He was about to say something, but was cut off when the girl began to whisper softly, and then her whisper turned into quiet singing, barely audible over the humming machine. America listened- intrigued-

"_On the wings of the wind_

_Over the dark rolling deep_

_Angels are coming_

_To watch over thy sleep_

_Angels are coming to watch over thee_

_So list' to the wind_

_Coming over the sea_

_Hear the wind blow_

_Hear the wind blow_

_Lean your head over_

_Hear the wind Blow_

_On wings of the night_

_May your fury be crossed_

_May no one that's dear_

_To our island be lost_

_Blow the winds gently_

_Calm be the foam_

_Shine the light brightly_

_To guide them back home_

_The curraghs are sailing_

_Way out in the blue_

_Laden with herring_

_Of silvery hue._

_Silver the herring_

_Silver the sea_

_Soon there'll be silver_

_For baby and me._

_Hear the wind blow _

_Hear the wind blow_

_Lean your head over_

_Hear the wind blow_

_The curraghs tomorrow_

_Will stand on the shore_

_And he'll go sailing_

_And sailing no more,_

_The nets will be drying_

_Nets haven't passed_

_Contented he'll rest_

_Safe in my arms."_

She finished, whispering the last few lines. America felt something in his heart sink though, as he noticed the tears glistening down her cheeks.

"Ireland?"

He called out, making the poor girl jump, eyes wide with embarrassment. Had he heard her singing?

"Yes, sir?"

"America." He said, trying to ignore the blush that was enveloping her face, his heart slowly melting away with pity.

"Yes, America?" she replied, looking down at her feet.

"You can go home now."


End file.
